Coffee percolating to the timbres
of his voice, readying him for the eager
students, minds open like baby blue jay beaks

reaching for the worms
he couldn’t feed me
no matter how many apples I brought him

Now
Mondays are silent
the sun too raucous, a guest
banished from the house
water rings afternoon
or not at all
cancer is angler thrashing
through his body, eating all
of the worms
he has shaped an underground
world of books, popcorn kernels,
and sweaty sadness
he burrows deeper
into his soil
of old quilts and funky sheets